The Belle of the River...short exercise_30jun19

The triumphs of erect stone, molded in the likeness of their creator.  Pinned against the clouds, raised on colonnades each.  To enhance their own loftiness, they point to above.  All told, 'do not think of the firmament below, it is nothing compared to the spaces above'.

Agreed.  The human mind has its limitations and assuredly its self-importance.  Myself, as lowly as I am, still am victim to the same.

My hands sweat and I shift my kit of oils and canvas to the other.  I would relieve myself of my woolen jacket, but I have not formally asked anything of the gardens and I am still desperate to find the Head Gardener.  A fellow I'm told is Michaels.  I've no idea what he looks like, but I suspect I would find him nearer the estate.

The Villa Liatris had survived the [Civil] War, nestled on a bend of the Mississippi near Ama.  It had a rare garden of contemporaneous European varieties of Lady Slippers, with yellow and purple hues that I'm told are quite unique and not easily reproduced in oil.

I had not come across them yet as I tracked across one side of the garden and to the other.  An ominous green house had stretched perpendicular to the main house, but I dare not enter without Michaels.

Frustrated at the endeavor and the heat, I found the shade of a cypress that was flanked with thick brush, creating an unnatural form of shade and coolness.  I could always find one no matter what backwood forest I find myself.  I sat and allowed myself to cool.  Sweat and humidity weighed my suit down.

"Sir?"  The call of southern hospitality.  It was a young voice.

I smiled before I opened my eyes, "Forgive a man some shade, son.  It is awfully warm out today and I have exhausted myself on effort of finding Mr. Michaels."

"Mr. Michaels, sir?  The Head Gardner?"

"That's him."

"Let me fetch him for you."  The boy ran off behind the arboretum.  I committed myself to the spot until he showed up.  In some time, the boy walked out with an older man in a light white long shirt.  I stood up and straightened out.

We shook hands.  "What can we do for you Mr. --?"

"Mr. Michaels, I simply wanted to ask for your permission to mix some oils and a bit of canvas painting.  I hear tell that the Lady Slippers are available this time of year.  I'm particular for the yellow and purple 'uns."

"Oils?"

"Painting.  See sir I work as an illustrator for the Post.  They are doing a fall piece for summer flowers.  I guess for folks hearkening back on the weather.  They gave me a stipend for your time to sit and paint for a day or two.  That is, if you are agreeable."

"Well, son, I t'ain't ne'er hear of such a thing, but as long as you are just painting them and not disturbing them I don't see no harm."

"Won't touch them.  May I pay you or the manor for the privilege?"

"Wouldn't hear of it.  We are happy for'n your interest.  Just put in where you seen it - we do have tours come through here and the Lady is keen on it.  Maybe send us a copy?"

"Sir, I'll send you three and you'll get all sorts of credit."

With that Michaels took me to another section of the garden I wouldn't have found.  It intersects under a portion of where the trellis of the arboretum spans to the Manor, it's quite beautiful with all sorts of orchids lining the walk-way.  Just enough sun is good enough.

And there they were, in full bloom.  I was eager now to take off my jacket, oblige myself on some cool tea (no cubes, they hadn't any electricity), and a stool.

I made two first runs on the yellow and the purple, making swaths from the corner to the center - arriving at a fair conclusion.  I will do the second one on my visit.  I put the color on my finger and put it near the flower.

"Close?"

"Colors change with light.  Today is a bit cloudy, but hot.  Tomorrow may be different.  I'll get it close it enough."  With that, I took my thin charcoals and sketched their forms.

Whistle.  "I t'ain't e'er seen one draw that quickly afore!"

I had what I needed even I didn't come back.  But I like the place and the tea is fine.

"See you tomorrow!"

...

As I walked off the estate with tools in tow and my jacket hung off my shoulder, I sported a young belle on the walkway.  She was peculiarly out of place for the time.  I guessed it was a costume ball of some kind.  She was absolutely perfect in every way.  Flawless skin, proud cheekbones, glimmering green eyes and fiery dark red hair.  She walked with pride, with back as straight as the statues I had just left.

"Sir."

"Miss."  I wanted to pull her aside for even a second, but her gait was such I didn't expect to stop her.  She did keep me in her periphery for the slightest of seconds before moving on.

I paused.  I couldn't help watching her walk away.  As a lady should, she did not turn around once.  God bless her.

Another reason to show up tomorrow.
...

...stares...16jun19...

There is no regalia in the sun light, but pomp
As you may see me
Yet I may see differently in my stare

Fantastic things
Star fields of brilliant color
That paint the vivid fields of night
Aback the costumed trees that seemingly dance
Stretching up, undulating to the rhythmic wind

Creatures that bray and chortle
in musical choir
a chorus you've yet to hear
(but even now you may delight to think what it may be)
Night birds in ancient song
lull us to simplest pleasures

By the shore
of painted waters
perhaps you are there
with languid line
your voluminous hair
and soft nape
drape to a soft arm
that, with lighted touch,
upon the merry streams
as if keys
or chords

Forgive my stare then
It may not what you think it be

Forgive want
As it may be just a memory
that can only be
in reverie

Mistake it not
for anything that
may be truth
as what a
heart's beat
may only be.

Es lässt sich nicht lesen...10jun19

Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul. - La Bruyere

"The Man of the Crowd" - Edgar Allen Poe

"Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes - die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.  Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a [burden] so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave."

Furtive.  That was the word the ghost of Samuel Burbage struggled for as he floated about the bed of Lawrence Count, age 72, New Shoreham RI.  Lawrence here has a furtive look about his eyes.  It was pitch in the room, but a ghost can see everything.  It was an attribute only available to the dead.  It was once a specialty to spirits, but the technology age did a great injustice with the invention of night mode.  Not that they can see everything.  Old Saint Michael had told Burbage over a game of bridge, "They may try to see the weakest of a light spectrum, but they'll never be able to capture feelings."  Burbage and a cohort from old Maryland, Tanner, watched Saint Michael closely.  "Watch how he counts the multipliers: I think he mixes clubs for spades."

Lawrence had *the* glow.  A guilty man.  A man who has to live with himself everyday.  He hates the world because he doesn't operate within it.  He cannot amend himself to life, so he makes mistakes.  He stacks guilt atop missed opportunities atop minor indiscretions.  He thinks he prays.  "He prays only to himself, he knows no GOD."  Saint Michael pointed him out and through the fog of miasma came to Lawrence.

"Why do we do this, Arch Angel?"

"All we can do is try Burbage.  If Tanner did haunt you, and you didn't repent, well, you wouldn't be here to do the same."

"This isn't a reward, Michael."

"Didn't say it was Burbage.  But it is the RIGHT thing to do."

So Burbage came to the creeping hour half-heartedly.  As Lawrence finished thoughts on the day's events, then a binge through a half-baked series on a streaming service, he started for bed.  Lawrence knew Burbage was there, even just a little, because the lights would come up in a blaze to make the trek up the stairs and down the hall.  Oh, he acted brave, but I could see the gait change, the odd periphery glances.  Burbage put his hands on Lawrence's back and he could feel him shiver.

Lawrence would 'read' before bed (if you catch my drift men) which Burbage was thankfully pulled from.  "Yes, we can see it...but, do you want to see?"  The answer 19 times out of 20 'no'.  The others were reassessed, you see.

Then the lights would go out and Burbage would whisper in Lawrence's ear, "Fluffernutter, fluffernutter."  Use words that make no sense to the living.  They hate that.  Except for fans of Sid Caesar.  Use the word 'sausage' then.  [Jonas Sinkletter was a grand writer of the Guide.]

Lawrence would grind himself into his blankets.  Burbage could sense it all in his glow: Count treated others as 'below' him, although the dissonance in that attitude is weighed in their own trappings.  Count had no real friends.  He had a wife that left him, running off with Anyman ages ago.  (Anyman had an interest and that was all that was needed.)  Count collected things and we know where that leads.  In the end Lawrence Count had little, so he expressed it in an ego so fragile it could balloon and break several times in the course of a day.  And so late in life to boot.

"Fluffernutter, dummy."


"It's not too late, Michael?"

"I didn't say that, Burbage.  You have to do what you can.  They make the choice."

"Fluffernutter, idiot."

"I'm not being graded, Michael?"

"You're already here, Burbage."

"Good.  I can't say I'm particularly good at this."

"Burbage."

"Fluffernutter."

...

The new day came and Burbage was long gone: the twilight and witching hour passed.  Lawrence Count noted his silliness at the nightly fear again.  But true rest escaped him and it did gnaw, even just a little.

Remembering the world is a bunch of idiots gave him the energy to start his day anew.

...